


Ley Lines

by giraffles



Series: Strangeness & Charm [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, BECAUSE YOU PROMISED BROTHER, M/M, Pining, Post CoS, Post-Canon, al why do you need so many cats, everyone gets home and everything is okay, nerds everywhere, people being oblivious, the amestrian drinking age is 18, y'all need more tringhams in your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffles/pseuds/giraffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Ley lines,” he said, as though it explained everything. “We used ley lines.”</i>
</p><p>A story in four parts, over four seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aeris

The night air was uncharacteristically cold, even for autumn in Xenotime. The changing seasons where usually much kinder the further you traveled south, probably cumulating in some fiery inferno at the equator. A lot like the cup of tea Russell held, which still steamed aggressively despite the nipping breeze and his steady frowning at it. Fletcher would say he was sulking; he would beg to differ. What was true was that he was going stir crazy. They’d have the last harvest in soon, just in time to avoid the prickling frost that would soon be creeping over the leaves, blackening them to death. There was still the greenhouse though, a perpetual splash of vibrancy no matter the weather.

Belsio stuck to his story that the whole region used to be green. It was hard to imagine, with most of Xenotime half buried in sand and mining slag. They’d improved Belsio’s groves and fields by leaps and bounds, that much was true; but he seriously doubted that agriculture would ever flourish there again. The soil was garbage, the irrigation network was shot. It was a nice pipe dream though.

With the sun long gone the landscape looked even sadder. The dark of the new moon certainly didn’t help, which was why it was so startling when the Bismin mountain range lit up. It wasn’t quite fireworks, not exactly electricity, but it was blinding, crackling, and gone in a flash. It lasted just long enough for him to let out the most unbecoming yelp and to spill hot tea all down his shirt. And then it was gone, leaving him wondering if it had even happened at all.

      “Russell?” Fletcher’s head popped out of a nearby window. “Are you okay?”

      “ ‘M fine, hand slipped,” He’d at least managed to catch the cup, “Did, uh, you see that?”

      “See what?”

      “Nevermind.”

 

* * *

 

He might have imagined the whole thing. No one in the town below said anything, and something like dazzling lights up in the rocky cliffs would have been hot gossip to send flying around. Elica was already insisting that they start on the apple picking, and it was hard to tell her no, between her steamroller enthusiasm and sudden growth spurt. She was getting big enough to physically haul him places and lift her own body weight in crops. She was growing up into a ferocious tomboy.

He was able to divert her energy in a positive way, moving bushels of fruit to and fro while she chattered on about prospecting expeditions. Her father had never given up on gold, and he seemed hell-bent on pulling it out of the mountains, even if it meant slogging through mud and wasteland to get it. If he got his ass killed, it would be on his own head. It wouldn’t be Russell’s fault.

But they did alright. The town struggled, but somehow mad it from year to year. It was something. A few days pass and he forgets about the light on the mountain side.

He was on the far side of the orchard when he heard the first suspicious rustling coming from the berry bushes. It could have been a squirrel or a rabbit—except animals didn’t communicate in hurried whispers and hushed arguments. He pretended not to notice; picking apples and filling the basket, until he found the perfect projectiles. He whipped it into where it collided with whatever brat was hiding there. There was a shout, and a dull metal sound, which was strange, but hey, his aim hadn’t been great.

      “You can come out now,” he called, readying another bruised apple, “I know you’re there—“

He had assumed it was a bunch of local kids looking for trouble. Nothing could have prepared him for the pair that burst forth from the cover. In fact, he was sure he was hallucinating. He dropped the apple.

      “We did it! We did it! We did it we did it we did it—“

      “You’re real!” Ed had tackled into him, crushing the oxygen out of his lungs that he needed to process the situation. “Holy fucking shit you’re _real_ —“

They were both laughing, mostly joyously, a little hysterically, echoing like peals of thunder.

Another whirlwind tearing through other people’s lives.

 

* * *

 

      “Ley lines,” Ed said, as though it explained everything. “We used ley lines.”

      “Ley lines.”

      “Yup, ley lines.”

He stared at them.

      “I don’t even know what those are—“

      “Here, let me,” Al produced a notebook and pencil out of somewhere, “They’re like natural power conduits crisscrossing the earth—“

      “They might even exist here—“

      “—and you can use them to do all sorts of things—“

      “—like a huge transmutation circle—“

      “—and moving that energy you can open the gate—“

      “—to get where you want to be—“

      “Hold on,” Fletcher broke into their explanation, past the rapid back and forth that was almost too fast to follow, “But where _were_ you?”

That got both of them to shut up rather fast. Russell had a feeling there where a lot of things they weren’t telling them.

      “That’s…”

      “Complicated.”

      “ _Really_ complicated.”

      “Like the grand clusterfuck of everything that could go wrong, probably has.”

      “And then some.”

He still wasn’t sure this was really happening. That they were all sitting in Belsio’s living room discussing strange new science or alchemy or some combination of the two. There the same as they were four years ago; god, they were so different. And not dead. Which was a good thing. Right?

Something told him that they shouldn’t ask about what exactly happened in that underground city. Or mention the sneaking suspicion that they had something to do with the disaster in Central two years prior. It was an open secret that more had happened there than the government would ever admit— something about portals and alchemy and strange flying machines, wreaking havoc and destruction. In the end the official explanations were inadequate. Flimsy, half put together and shoved out without a second thought.

Fletcher accepted their vague excuses with glowing enthusiasm. He was more than happy to take them at their word, and fuss over them, and rambled excitedly to Alphonse about the work they’d been doing.

Of course Russell was happy to see them. It was the accompanying vertigo that was kicking him in the ribs. When on earth did he get so… so… attractive?

Shit.

      “You’re staring.” Ed commented, gold eyes narrowing, “Do I look that different?”

      “No,” Yes. “I was just thinking that you haven’t gotten much taller—“

He deserved the sucker punch to the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the grin that came with it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for the storm that had come rolling in while everyone was sleeping.

He really didn’t have a choice.


	2. Aqua

The only place there wasn’t ice was the greenhouse windows, where it melted down instead, then reformed into fractals on the ground. It was the only dash of color for miles. It rarely snowed, half because of the dry southern climate and half because it hovered just above the frost threshold. Even the mountain tops had more ice than fluffy down. He hid in the greenhouse these days.

When Fletcher came to find him, nervous and mumbling, he knew something was wrong. You would think after all these years they would have gotten better at communicating; or maybe Russell was just terrible at being approachable. That was probably what it was. So he pretended not to notice his brother’s shuffling and severe lack of eye contact while trying to remember what he might have done to bring this on.

      “Brother?”

      “Mmhm.”

      “Can we… talk?”

This couldn’t be good. “Sure. What about?”

Fletcher took a deep breath, and he continued to prune whatever the hell he’d been pruning.

      “I want to go to school,” his words came out in a trembling rush, “In Central. For medicine. I mean, I’d have to take an exam, get letters of recommendation, and find scholarships, somehow, and I’ve already talked to Al, and he said I can stay with them, and I, and I—“

He was serious. Standing firm and barely stopping to breathe even though he looked like he might cry—

      “—And I know that we’ve done so much here and that there’s still so much more to do, and that we’ve always done things together, but I really want to do this and—“

      “Okay.”

He stopped.

      “Okay,” Russell repeated, “If that’s what you want to do.”

      “You’re not mad?”

Oh. Oh. That explained so much. Fletcher had been so jumpy and secretive lately, spending so much time on the tavern’s phone making calls out, and he hadn’t thought much of it. He’d assumed his brother had been bored during the winter lull or had found someone to pine over. And he hadn’t bothered to ask.

Shit, he was bad at this.

      “I’m not mad,” Why on earth would he think that? Because his only family wanted to leave him behind? Oh. Probably.

Of course he didn’t want him to go. It would be a lie to say that there wasn’t a selfish desire lurking. But for how many years had he kept him here already, without thinking of what he might want. He could keep him there still. If he asked him to stay, he would.

He had to let him go.

      “You mean it?” Fletcher sniffled and his heart nearly broke.

      “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t, dummy.” And that earned him an armful of sibling who used to be small enough for him to carry on his shoulders and so quiet that the grade school teachers where convinced something was wrong with him. The brother that had almost died because of his own blind arrogance.

He had to let him go.

 

* * *

 

Central was too damn cold. And crowed, even though the streets where covered in sticky snow and sludge that gathered gutters. Fletcher was positively glowing with excitement. Russell pulled his scarf tighter.

Alphonse was easy to spot in the throngs of people milling about, tall and beaning, waving them over. Someday he’d ask about that armor, about that city, because there were a lot of things that they were missing puzzle pieces to. But it could wait. Ed was nowhere to be seen.

      “I sent him shopping,” Al explained smugly, as if he’d won some sort of bet, “I’m sure he’ll catch up with us.”

The sky saw fit to start sprinkling snowflakes and he frowned up at them, regretting that he didn’t have a coat with a hood. Fletcher bumped into his shoulder.

      “Do you remember the last time we were here?”

How could he forget. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

      “Speaking of which,” Al broke in, “I heard that you two helped cause quite a ruckus—“

      “I didn’t do anything,” Fletcher protested, louder than he would have liked, and he knew right where this conversation was headed, “He was the one who decided to—“

Russell threw his brother into a snow drift. The shrieks of indignation where hardly muffled by the half melted mess, but he kept a straight face. Al lifted an eyebrow.

      “That bad, huh?”

      “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A weight collided with his middle, Fletcher catching him off balance and dragging him down into the sludge alongside him. Al thought it was hysterical. He lobbed a poorly formed snowball at him, which he dodged while he kept laughing. Fletcher kept trying to shove ice down his shirt, that evil little twerp.

      “The hell are you guys doing?” a red blob huffed from behind a pile of brown paper bags. “You’re having a snowball fight without me?”

He could hear the pout in Ed’s voice without even looking at his face, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The ball of ice and grit that hit him next was unbearably cold, as was one of of the hands that hauled him to his feet, but the other was warm.

      “You’re an ass.”

Al snorted, now holding the bags of groceries instead. “Like you’re any better, brother.”

      “Well at least I have a nice one.”

Russell choked on air, because he wasn’t wrong, but holy did he not need to be reminded. Al rolled his eyes. Fletcher frowned at his snow dampened clothes. The week couldn’t end fast enough.

 

* * *

 

 

The University of the State of Amestris was nice. Alright, it was top of the line. Impressive. Intimidating. Fletcher was in love, running from office to office, gathering paperwork, and registering for the spring exams.

They where a nation of science first and foremost. There wasn’t a better place to attend school on this side of the continent, at least outside of Xing. He sometimes wondered if he would have already graduated by now, if they had stayed close to Central instead of leaving in the night to follow the trail of a father long gone. Not for the first time he wondered how badly he had screwed them both over.

      “What are you looking so grumpy about?” Ed was very good at sneaking up on people, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

      “Don’t do that.”

      “Do what?” he said with eyes wide with innocence. Russell knew acting when he saw it. “Say hello to my best buddy?”

      “You’re full of shit.”

His coat was still red, but darker in shade, and made in a different cut. He still stood out against the steely industrial backdrop, blazing in fire and gold. It still looked better than the drab clothes he had seen him in last, even if his gaudy tastes hadn’t changed.

      “You gonna enroll too?”

      “No, I have work back in Xenotime.” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t even know what I would do.”

      “I heard they have a pretty good alchemy program.”

      “Yeah, I’ll wow them with flower crowns and oranges out of season.”

Ed threw him a sly look. “You’re selling yourself short; that’s new.”

      “It’s going to be hard enough getting Fletcher in.” He kicked a loose stone across the courtyard. It was all but empty with the winter solstice fast approaching. “I like to deal with headaches one at a time, thank you.”

That, and impersonating state employees was a felony. He was praying none of that had actually ended up on record.

      “You could stay too, if you wanted.” Ed shifted from side to side. “There’s more than enough room.”

Russell stared at him.

      “I mean it—don’t give me that look—Fletcher already is, it’s no issue. You don’t have to, it’s just an offer.” He made a face. “You can stay out in the boonies if you want to.”

It was tempting. Overwhelmingly tempting. Xenotime wasn’t a bad place to live, and it had come a long way, really, but it wasn’t’… exciting? Fulfilling? But it was also stable, familiar, closer to a home than other place had been. And he was a goddamn coward.

      “I’m good.” Good at lying. “But thank you.”

Ed shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably full of so many mistakes and I'm so sorry


	3. Tera

Fletcher was gone before the spring melt. He’d been accepted, destroying the tests and anyone’s worries about a student who had never attended a formal school, and had left in a flurry. He didn’t realize how much more work would pile up after they lost a set of hands. Alicia accused him of sulking, he yelled at her for slacking. She threw a bag of seeds at him. He angrily made sure they were gently planted in the army of starter ports. He got all of them done by midday. Belsio sighed loudly.

      “Come inside.”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

      “Just come on.”

He went through a mental list of things that he could have possibly done wrong and came up with a huge blank space. Belsio never got overtly angry. He got quiet. He gave off an air of disappointment that made you want to dig your own grave and jump inside. He never yelled. And somehow that was so much worse. He followed him less than eagerly.

      “Sit down. I’m making tea.”

People in this country and their obsession with serving tea whenever something had gone wrong, or was headed to hell in a hand basket.

      “What—“

Belsio raised a hand to stop him. “Sit.”

So he did. And he grumbled to himself, because he was a grown ass adult, damn it, and—

Belsio shoved a cup into his hand. He took the chair across from him. He sighed again.

      “What—“

      “You need to leave.”

Russell almost dropped his cup. It was happening, after all these years. Belsio was coming to his sense and kicking him out, because who would willingly harbor someone who had nearly poisoned the whole town to death?

      “Good lord, calm down, I’m not putting you on the street.”

      “Oh.” His voice cracked.

      “You’ve done a lot here, and I appreciate that.” Belsio took a sip, staring him down the whole time. “But is this really what you want to spend your whole life doing?”

Why not, though? He was good at it. He liked plants, coaxing them to grow and bloom and live. And he owed it to Xenotime to do something good for their sake, after their family had repeatedly kicked them while they where down. It was hard to look Belsio in the eye. So he didn’t.

      “You’re brilliant, more so than Nash ever was,” he flinched at the name, “So what are you still doing here?”

      “Because I…”

Fucking hell.

      “I hope you’re not sticking around because of some misguided goal of repentance.”

      “And what is that supposed to mean?”

      “You where a kid. You did some stupid things.” He gave him a look that said ‘you still do sometimes’, but continued, “In truth you don’t owe these people anything.”

      “But—“

      “But nothing. They’ve been chasing dreams of gold for more than a decade now. Their greed is what is going to dig them into a hole that they can’t climb back out of. I’m not saying there aren’t good people in this town, but there’s a reason I live outside the limits and it’s not just because this is the only patch of ground where anything will grow.”

He glowered at his tea as Belsio’s gaze burned into him. “I could have killed them.”

      “But you didn’t.”

      “And that’s supposed to make it better?”

      “You could have. But you didn’t. And do you think Mugear would have stopped just because you did? Do you really think he wouldn’t have found someone else to finish the job?”

He was right. Someone else would have been lured in. Someone else who would have less qualms about sacrificing living, breathing people for the sake of a shiny rock dug out of the ground. There were already too many tiny tombstones from the first round of poison by artificial wealth. Knowing that he wasn’t the one to put them in their graves didn’t make it any easier.

      “Besides,” Beliso continued, “I remember someone telling me they weren’t going to live in the shadow of their father?”

Oh god damn it.

 

* * *

 

      “So you did decide to come after all.”

      “Have anyone ever told you,” Russell wanted to both punch and kiss him for that shit-eating grin, “That you’re insufferable?”

And really, really attractive.

      “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

      “I think you need new friends.”

      “That’s what you’re for, dumbass—here, let me take one of those bags.”

He let him sling a duffel over his metal shoulder. He’d always thought that butterflies where a flimsy, inadequate metaphor; bees where better. Humming, constant, mildly anxiety inducing. But without pollinators you wouldn’t have harvests, ecosystems, and lowly weeds. Honey and honey colored eyes.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

If Central had been dull before, now it was a riot of color. The amount of greenery was astounding, and he swore that the city had gotten together as a whole to make sure each shade of the rainbow was represented. Lilies weren’t even supposed to come in that color.

Ed unceremoniously kicked their door open. “I hope you like cat fur. It’s a condiment in this house.”

He couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Fletcher had said something about the cats, and he didn’t min animals even if he had never felt the drive to own one, and there had never been a family pet; not with a chronically ill mother and a father too deep in work to ever come home. However he wasn’t expecting five.

      “For crying out loud,” Ed scooped up one of the many that where endeavoring to trip them both, a large tabby, and tossed it the two steps to the couch, “Living death traps.”

      “You couldn’t tell him no, could you?” Russell picked up an obnoxiously fluffy calico, which was happily vibrating.

      “That one is your fault.”

      “How is it my fault, I don’t even live here!”

      “You do now.” The wolfish grin returned. “So you get to name it.”

      “Why the hell,” the cat licked his hand, “Do I have to name it?”

       “Because brother isn’t allowed to anymore.” Al stumbled out of a room down the hall, arms full of books. “Hi, Russell.”

He looked at the cat. The cat yawned loudly. “Bob.”

      “You can’t name her _Bob._ ” Alphonse was scandalized. “Honestly , you’d think the two of you would be more creative.”

      “I happen to think that ‘Piss Baby’ is a work of genius that encompasses her personality perfectly.”

      “ _Ed._ ”

Not for the first time, he wondered just what he was getting into.

 

* * *

 

Fletcher came home with several bottles of a sweet white wine that he wonder how he’d even gotten in the first place, barely legal and certainly not looking the part. Curse their mother’s genetics, gifting them with long-lasting youth that backfired at every turn. But he was so excited, and full of stories about his teachers and classes and the menagerie of cats that Russell didn’t bother to ask. They had to go digging for a corkscrew, which they couldn’t find, so Ed transmuted one out of the metal of the sink despite Al’s vivid protests. (”I’ll put it back later!”)

There was dinner, long dictations on the trials of sharing space with felines, convoluted discussions on theories that would have been difficult to trace without the haze of alcohol— which wasn’t unpleasant, but could prove dangerous by the time the four of them where a silly mess on the living room floor.

      “You can’t name her Bob, we have a theme,” Al huffed dramatically from the couch, “A food theme.”

      “A dumbass shit theme.” Ed chimed in. He poked Russell with one of the empty bottles. “You’re not gonna eat ‘em, why name ‘em after food?”

      “I like it, though.” Fletcher was nearly asleep in the chair, the tabby known as Breadloaf curled up with him. “It’s cute.”

      “ _You’re_ cute.”

      “Nuh-uh.”

      “Uh- _huh_.”

      “Eclair.” He announced suddenly, proverbial lightning strike landing. “Call ‘em Eclair.”

      “French, huh? Remember France?”

      “I remember Marseilles,” Al started dreamily, “And I remember that biologist who you—”

Ed violently ripped cushion out from under his brother and proceeded to beat him with it. Fletcher was out cold. Russell was very, very lost.

But that was okay, because this was okay. He didn’t need to know where or what a France or a Mar-say was to feel the soft warmth radiating next to him. It almost kept at bay the lonely longing that was reemerging, coloring every stray sound and glance with something unknown and unobtainable. His long hair kept brushing against his arm, ad he knew he should probably move away so they weren’t touching, but is was hard to summon up the will power to do so. It was wholly selfish and undeniably wonderful. Like the visiting girl from the last summer solstice festival, with her flashing eyes and bitter smile— and wine was dangerous, hadn’t he sworn it off after her?

      “Should go to bed,” Al mumbled as he rolled ungracefully off the couch. “I think Fletch has class in the afternoon.”

Fletcher had to be half hauled up the stairs, sleepily stumbling along. The white cat with dusted tips, Cheesecake, was it?, tried to trip them as they went. Ed yelled an ‘I told you so!’ after them, which sent Russell into a fit of giggles, even though he couldn’t place why it was so funny.

      “ ‘S probably a good idea.” Ed propped himself up on one elbow to look at him. The bees came back, buzzing incessantly, humming with wings beating against ribs. Oh, god, it simply wasn’t fair.

      “Yeah,” he slung an arm over his face so he didn’t have to see. “Probably.”

      “You’re really dense, y’know?” his presence shifted, hovering over him, and he made the mistake of looking. “Lucky you’re cute.”

And then —holy shit— Ed was kissing him, leaning heavily down, and the sound of surprise he made died in his throat. Electric, static chills and trembling, even though it was way too warm, and—

—A cat knocked something over in the kitchen, something loud and rattling, crashing with an echo. Ed swore.

He fled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we finally get a smooch, and then cats happen. I told you they where important characters.


	4. Ignis

You would think that because Central was, well, centrally located that it would be cooler in the summer than the southern province. That theory didn’t account for the way buildings and asphalt reflected the rays of the sun and amplified them. Compared to the windy valley, Central broiled in stagnant air as soon as the cool nights of spring faded away. It was too hot to read, or think, or water the plants in the garden that had come with the house, which wilted at the first sign of temperature change— all because the previous owner had decided that a sensitive and high maintenance species was a good idea.

But he couldn’t just let them die either. It had become his personal mission to bring them back from the brink. A lost cause maybe, but he was collecting a lot of those lately. Like keeping the sink clear of dishes, or preventing Piss Baby from chewing on Fletcher’s homework. Like the awkward relationship,or lack thereof, that he was doing his best to ignore by coaxing the petunias to grow. It was like he had traded the farm in Xenotime for an ailing plot of land and a degree in dysfunctional family ties.

The side door opened and then whined shut. Al was in Risembol, Fletcher was at the university.

      “Whatcha’ doin’?”

      “What does it look like?” Attempting to brush the dirt off his arms only smeared it thickly instead, which was surely an attractive look. “I’m trying to save a life.”

Ed snorted. “You and your plants.”

      “I _like_ plants,” He became defensive on sheer force of habit, falling too easily into words he usually worked so hard to measure, “They don’t make smartass remarks.”

He gave Russell this look that was caught somewhere between ‘you’re hopeless’ and ‘well, you’re not wrong’, and then put his mismatched hands on his hips.

      “I,” he announced, “Need a sparing partner.”

He pulled out another patch of weeds. “Good for you.”

      “Aw, c’mon! Al’s visiting Winry ‘till next Sunday and Fletcher can’t even watch a fight!”

It was true. The only time Fletcher had ever hit someone was when they had been kids, squabbling over something stupid, and he’d punched his brother square in the face. He hadn’t done any damage with his four-year-old swing, and before Russell could have even yelled at him, he’d started crying about it. H was far too gentle and caring to do anything that looked like fighting, which is why it had been left to his brother to get into senseless scuffles.

      “Maybe I don’t feel like it.”

      “What, are you scared?” Ed suddenly draped himself over his shoulders, and he had to stifle a shriek because he had been pointedly avoiding physical contact. “I never did get that rematch.”

He shoved him off, probably rougher than he should have. “If it’ll shut you up.”

And he’s grinning again, eyes and hair catching the sun and throwing the light back, like some living, breathing prismatic wonder. Holy fuck did he have it bad. He has no idea where they stand after that first night, where he ran like a scared child at the first opportunity and hated himself for it every day since. He know where he’d like to stand. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe yes?

      “I’m out of practice,” he started, finding footing and remembering the first time it came to blows, even if this was supposed to be a friendly match, “Not that it helped you much last time.”

      “ _You—_ ” Ed sputters, an though there’s no real venom there, he charges in anyway, and Russell actually has to duck the blow aimed for him.

He learned how to fight on the streets. With Nash Tringham off destroying lives and his mother dying in a hospital bed, they had next to nothing for supervision. The city boys found them as targets, kids younger than them but who knew so much more than them and their fancy private tutors, chasing them out of spite an childish cruelty. His vicious tongue didn’t help matters. He got good at running. He got good at lying. He got good at playing dirty because it was the only way to win. Sometimes you didn’t have to fight at all, if you could manipulate the situation. Pit the fools against each other and let them throw the punches. That way he wouldn’t have to explain to Fletcher, yet again, why he was coming home all black and blue and red.

Ed’s form, as haphazard as it might look to some, had still been taught. Still had a structure of discipline behind it. Five years prior really had been a fluke, and the tide of battle was no longer in his favor. It was all he could do to stay on his feet, and even that didn’t last very long. A metal hand fisted in his shirt while the other hooked his arm, and suddenly he was airborne, then becoming more acquainted with the petunias than he would have liked. Under no circumstances was his strangled yelping that had gone with it going to be discussed. Ever.

      “I hate you,” he mumbled even though it wasn’t true in the least, because Ed is standing there framed by golden light and offering to help him up. The automail is scorching but he doesn’t care.

      “I never realized that you’re actually a terrible liar.”

He scowled. “It’s only because it’s you.”

This stupid, beautiful, impossible entity that had rolled in like a wildfire, flames licking and smoke clouding, choking. And yet he’d walked in willingly; he’d seen the blaze from afar and had waded in without regard for healthy and safety.

      “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

      “It means,” That he can’t decide if he wants to kiss him or knock him on his ass, “That I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

He blinked. “What the hell has been eating you lately.”

      “Nothing.” He sucked in a breath. “Everything.”

      “If you’ve got a problem with me,” His eyes went hard and his arms where crossed defensively, “Then you should just say it.”

Ed made him so mad sometimes. Drove him crazy in ways that weren’t at all desirable. He’d been trying to figure out where they were going, or weren’t going, with all of this, and he was just so sick of it. Before his brain could catch up with the rest of him, his hands were curled in that stupid black shirt he always wore, and hauled him in for fumbling and rough kiss. He half expected to be thrown across the yard again.

But he didn’t. If anything he corrected their off-center balance and started dragging fingers through his hair. It was too hot to be this close, yet moving away seemed like it would invite certain destruction.

      “You,” he broke first, “Are a son of a bitch.”

That wolfish grin spreading over his was going to devour him whole. “You’re a dumbass.”

      “Excuse you, I’m a genius.” Not that the two of those designations where mutually exclusive. “This just isn’t my area of expertise.”

      “You’re a smartass too.”

That one he wasn’t going to dispute. “Hello Mr. Pot, I’m Kettle.”

He snickered. He pulled him back down, causing boiling sunshine to gather in his heaving chest. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew that he should just relax and let it happen. That was far easier said than done. He should willingly, gladly, let him lead, and here he was fighting every inch of progress because he psyche was fucked six ways to Sunday. Damn his pride, damn his feelings, damn his restrictions and baggage that had been quietly sitting at the back of the metaphorical closet until now. He hadn’t ask for any of this.

It was too late now, wasn’t it?

He’s hissing through his teeth when he starts biting at him, going lightheaded and blood stuttering, It’s so much so fast and he’s torn between notions of ‘please stop’ and ‘if he stops I’ll kill him’.

      “You don’t want me,” he insists, breathless, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

      “In my expert opinion,” comes the voice from near his collar bone, “No one really does. If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lyin’.”

      “When did you get so worldly?”

Probably when he decided to be an adult at twelve years old, then wrap them all up in a conspiracy before disappearing for four years.

His hands fell to his hips like they where meant to sit there always, thumbs through the loops in his jeans, heedless of the grass and mud there. He could feel the heat even through the denim.

      “Just let me in, moron,” huffed the small request, “You can always kick me out if you get sick of me.”

And that was it, wasn’t it, he would never grow sick and tired of sunshine, never want to be in a world with out it, thriving off it’s glow. He’d let it burn his fair skin and keep coming back for more. Setting flowers out to bloom and dry grass to catch a light.

Because really, he hated being cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLAMS THIS DOWN, BINGO DANCES OUT, GOODNIGHT PEOPLE, SEE U NEXT TIME

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember where I found the prompt for this set, but it was basically a challenge to write about your OTP using the four seasons. So that's what happened. I've had this written for over a year but I'm finally getting it posted, even if I'm not 100% happy with it, BECAUSE LET IT BE DONE.


End file.
